


a hollow memory

by lsularak



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angels, Comfort, Demons, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Heaven, Hell, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Memory Loss, Physical hurt, Religion, a large quantity of painful feelings, all the realms inbetween, all variants of hurt, also obviously, and i love them, and like a small amount of comfort, but only in the Secret Extra Chapter, but yes hurt, crowley and aziraphale are both idiots, demons and holy ground dont mix, i guess?, i only write sad things im sorry, i wrote this on no sleep, in which the fall does lasting damage, obviously, or alteration at the least, there is comfort involved, they love each other and that is What Matters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-29 01:05:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19819351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lsularak/pseuds/lsularak
Summary: “I didn’t – I didn’tfall, I just sort of – sort of – sauntered vaguely downwards…”That was a lie. That – that was a bold-facedlie, but no one disputed it. No one looked the demon in the eyes that he so carefully kept covered and asked him to recount how he managed to saunter when everyone else was thrown down from the Heavens with all of the force of an earthquake.on a fall from Grace, and on all it entails.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i am Branching Out,,, but only in the directions of fandoms. i still seem to Exclusively write Sad Stuff,,, HOWEVER; i tried to add a like,, Softer Ending for this? so there's. a short extra chapter. prolly not the Best(tm) but i Tried !!
> 
> as usual constructive criticism is welcome!!

“I didn’t – I didn’t _fall_ , I just sort of – sort of – sauntered vaguely downwards…”

That was a lie. That – that was a bold-faced _lie_ , but no one disputed it. No one looked the demon in the eyes that he so carefully kept covered and asked him to recount how he managed to saunter when everyone else was thrown down from the Heavens with all of the force of an earthquake.

Those who had fallen with him dared not mention how during his _‘saunter’_ he had cried out for a God that had turned His back on them so He didn’t have to see the pain on their faces, the anguish for the loss of the only home they had ever known; they dared not mention the sobs that tore free from his throat, the tears that left his eyes raw and red long after they had turned golden and slit; dared not mention the frantic pleads he had made to Him, begging for the burning that would never leave his wings to stop, begging for absolution, for a reprieve.

They were demons, yes, but they too remembered the pain of the Fall; the scorching of their wings as their Grace was torn out of them, as the love they had been made with was revoked. They remembered the smell of the ashes as their feathers had the holiness burned out of them, as the smell of sin was brought to the world. They still carried the ache of holy flame rushing through their bodies, for the first time causing damage to them, for the first time _burning_ them.

They remembered, too.

They would never drag the memories to the surface.

While they knew the truth, the angels did not. The angels had turned their backs, too, much like their Father. They didn’t want to see their brothers and sisters fall. They didn’t want to remember the cries they could hear as those they had once shared the world with were cast out, didn’t want to remember the wails they had made in response. They didn’t want to remember the agony they had been in.

So, when presented with the information that it was a saunter, not a fall, they took it for truth. Yes, a saunter would still likely hurt, having Grace ripped out with a hand that could not show mercy would hurt even if not done with as much force, but it sounded so much gentler, even if that was not the case. They were told to hate the demons, so they did, but that did not mean they wished the all of the agony of a fall from Grace upon them; that did not mean they wished the crushing force of the torment of the Fall on those they had known and loved, on those they would have to pretend to forget.

So, yes, they took the information that they knew, deep down, was false, and ran with it. If the angel they had once known wanted to pretend that his plunge from Grace was softer, they would let him. It wasn’t like they could tell him they remembered him, either, or that they remembered the rumors of one of the Fallen trying to save the others; trying to pick up the pieces, as he had always done, and patch his brothers and sisters back together. No one would remind him of how, for the first time in his existence, he had failed.

It wasn’t like he knew about it, anyway.

Those memories were mercifully swept under the rug, along with everything else the Fallen had once known. Everything except for the burning, the screaming, and the vague memories of what landed them in their roles in the first place.

“All I did was ask _questions_ ,” he would say, trying to explain his casting out. The problem with that, though, was that he could scarcely remember the questions he had asked in the first place. He figured they must not be too important, if he couldn’t remember them. Must not be important, much like his name hadn’t been. It was probably better that he didn’t know, really. That was what he told himself, at least. He could spend all his time trying to remember, could spend every waking moment crying and keening for a God who had thrown him to the curb to grant him back his memories, even a phantom sensation of Heaven that was not burning; or he could let it lie. Let it lie and embrace this new lifestyle, one that had charred wings that would ache with every breath he didn’t need and one that forced him to do everything he and his nature hated, even if he no longer knew why he hated it.

He let it lie.

Usually, at least.

Usually, he could leave it, ignore the constant sensation of his wings being burned and torn at and bloodied, and usually ignoring the sensation was enough. Ignoring the feeling worked, for the most part, but then… then Things would happen. Nothing of great importance, no, not at all, but just… an offhand remark, one that cut a little too closely to a home he couldn’t remember, and he would be back where he started; begging and screaming on a cold, uncaring floor, with nothing but plants listening to his prayers.

However, _usually_ does not mean _always_ , and more often than he would like to admit, the demon would end up curled on his floor, with plants he had only ever berated trying to offer him even a sliver of solace, solace that he took in his hands and snapped like a pencil. Demons did not need comfort, and damned as he was, and he could not and would not accept it.

After a day of this, a day of cursing a God that had thrown him out and begging to remember anything of Heaven that was not pain, even to just remember something so simple as his _name_ , he would try to collect himself. He would eventually be able to drag himself off of the floor and be able to slither into his bed, but only just, and before he could gain the presence of mind to curse God with more reckless abandon than even a demon should be able to conjure, he would fall unconscious. After all, over a day with no sleep when you have grown accustomed to it can bring down even the strongest; so, the demon would sleep for the next two.

He would wake, of course, his curses but a misty memory, only for the cycle to begin again within the same month.

Lather, rinse, repeat, and all of that.

That was neither here nor there, though, not to a demon who would swear until his dying moment that he never _wanted_ to remember Heaven. What _was_ , however, here, there, and everywhere in that moment, was the fact that he _had_ been back. He had been back and it had burned, the holiest place that was not on earth rejecting his very existence, but he had been back, and he had stayed for as long as he needed to. As long as he had to in order to keep his angel alive.

You see, an oversight that Aziraphale had made when he suggested this body swap, was that Crowley was not welcome in Heaven. Angels were different, obviously. Angels could walk into the most unholy of places and feel not much more than a general sense of unease, but demons… demons were granted no such luxuries. Being cast from Grace was agony, and it was not the end. Demons were forced out from their holy places, too. Places they would go to repent to a God that could not listen to them if they had the ability, the willpower. At first, many had tried it. Tried to step into holy grounds in hopes of making up with their Father, only to be scorched when their feet so much as hovered above the sacred grounds.

Some still made the effort.

Others let their faith burn out with their wings.

No one was happy.

But, I digress. Grounds so holy were bound to burn, and Aziraphale did not consider it. Could not, really, considering that he had only ever known the embrace of Heavenly love, had never had it torn out, and that is why it slipped his mind. Crowley, though, he could never forget that his very being was hated by holy spaces, cursed to relive a feeling akin to falling every time he let so much as a feather intrude. Despite this, though, despite knowing that his being would try to discorporate on the spot, would do anything to get out of grounds that burned and tore at his scorched soul, he agreed. Agreed, and saw it through.

Aziraphale was not the only one to make such oversights, though.

See, now, all of the pain of the Fall, every ache, every feather that had been torn out of place… they still hurt. Crowley, who had been living with the aches and searing pains of being fallen, did not realize to what extent they hurt. After all, 6,000 years is quite a long time to adjust to pain (that was not to say it didn’t hurt, it definitely did, and it was all Crowley could do some days to get out of his bed to swagger about as usual.)

So, when Aziraphale swapped with Crowley, he was not expecting the tidal wave of pain that hit him, to say the least. To say more, though… He was completely unprepared. He knew that Crowley hurt, he knew that the Fall had done irreparable damage to him, but he never quite knew how _much_. It is one thing to know of something, it’s another to _know_ it, and Aziraphale was starting to wish he never knew about this.

To add insult to injury, he was hit in the stomach trying to chase after his own body that just so happened to be inhabited by someone else. This was how Aziraphale found out that being in Crowley’s body could hurt _more_.

Aziraphale had never quite known why some demons were so cruel, except perhaps out of spite, out of hate, but now he thought that maybe, _maybe_ it had something to do with all of the pain they felt.

Even with every last one of the bones in this body aching, even with his being begging to be back in the body it had held for so long, even in the agony he was in, Aziraphale managed to feel pity. Not for Crowley (not outwardly, at least, if Crowley knew that Aziraphale had ever felt anything even close to pity for his broken body he would discorporate on the spot,) but for the beings around him. Beings in so much pain that their only viable option was to cause as much of it as they could on others, too.

When he left Hell, he had a new understanding of Crowley, at least in some senses; and when Crowley left Heaven, he had achieved the same.

Neither mentioned it as they met, and neither mentioned it as they swapped their bodies back. Crowley was nailed down by the all-encompassing pain that his temporary host didn’t have, and didn’t so much as flinch. Aziraphale was set loose by the lack of pain that his body lacked, but that his temporary host had held in spades.

Neither mentioned it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is my,,, attempt at a slightly softer end. no idea what im doing. i tried though !!

Now, that is not to say that they forgot about these things the moment they had ended. No, of course they didn’t. Crowley spent his days trying to scrub the feeling of holiness scorching his skin away, tried to forget the cold and pristine walls of a home he had long since forgotten. Tried to convince himself that the flashes of memory he thought he was having were nothing more than the optimistic dreams of a demon; and Aziraphale spent his days trying to ignore the phantom sensations of burning he swore he could still feel, tried to forget how much hatred and suffering he could feel the second he set foot into Hell, tried to tell himself that he wasn’t concerned for Crowley, tried to talk himself out of getting up to check on the demon every day he took longer than usual to arrive.

They could never really forget what they had seen, what they had felt, but they could grow around it, try to adjust.

Crowley started bringing things to Aziraphale. Not big things, that would be too suspicious, but random smaller things. Gifts, or _‘bribes’_ as Crowley would insist on calling them, even though there was no reason to bribe Aziraphale anymore. Just little things, like houseplants, or books, even knowing that Aziraphale had long since run out of shelving space. Crowley understood the clutter, now. After seeing how barren Heaven was, he almost started putting things in his flat, but that was a step too far, even for his dramatic self.

Meanwhile, Aziraphale started to observe Crowley more acutely. He made note of the days that the demon seemed to try too hard, the days his smirks were just a little too strained, the days he would flutter about as if he had something to prove. Aziraphale started to pay attention to these days, and started trying to do something about them.

Offers for wine at the bookshop, which suddenly had a much more comfortable couch, and that was always the perfect temperature, for example. A gentle suggestion that Crowley take a nap because _‘oh, you look exhausted, dear, please rest,’_ with careful hands carding through his hair when he begrudgingly (and inevitably) agreed. Aziraphale didn’t know what else he could offer without crossing a line, but damn him, he was trying. He offered Crowley everything he could think of, everything he could find that may even possibly ease his pain; everything short of prescription medications, which Aziraphale knew Crowley already had, tucked away somewhere in his flat.

Yet, still, neither mentioned it. Instead, they just continued this trend they had adopted. Gradually, though, things did change. Crowley’s gifts started getting larger, taking up more space, having more meaning; and Aziraphale started being a little more obvious about his mother-henning. Questions were still asked softly, though, as if they may scare Crowley off, and offers were extended in hushed tones. _‘How are you today, my dear? Oh, would you like me to clean your wings, dearest? You look quite tired; would you like to rest for a moment? Would you like some tea?’_ All spoken in the quiet tones of someone who knew that a whisper too loud would send the one they so desperately wanted to comfort bolting for the door.

This careful method, no matter how stupid it seemed, worked, and that was the important part.

The fact that Aziraphale was able to take the demon he loved and take care of him, able to ease his pain even a little, was important. The fact that he could ever so gently lift his demon off the couch into his arms, being met with a tired puddle of Crowley that would cling to Aziraphale with all of the fleeting strength in his body, was important.

So long as he could still hold the demon he loved in his arms, and try to wash the pain away, everything else was inconsequential.


End file.
